


into infinite tomorrow

by spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Travel, a love letter to copenhagen, terra incognita 2.0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:45:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: They leave the store with a small bundle dangling from Victor’s left hand, his right laced with Yuuri’s own.“I thought you were the one who hated shopping,” Victor says, pouting a little. Sometimes if he purses his lips just right Yuuri will try to kiss his pout away. Victor wishes that Yuuri would kiss his pouts away all the time, but he lives in hope that if he keeps trying he’ll improve his odds.Yuuri swings their linked hands a little as they walk out of the store and back into the narrow street.“Oh, well. Phichit and I used to do this all the time in Detroit.”“You’d voluntarily go shopping with Phichit but not me?”“He doesn’t treat shopping like he’s going for another Olympic gold.”“Then he’s clearly doing it wrong.”“Victor,” Yuuri says. “It was a different kind of competition. Like who could find the worst clothes. That sort of thing. Though sometimes we found ones we actually wanted.”Victor taps a finger to his lips and squeezes his other hand where it’s laced with Yuuri’s. “Oh well. I guess that makes sense.”“Really?”“Well, it sort of explains your taste in ties.”





	into infinite tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> written for terra incognita 2.0! I got to work with the incredible mega-truong and i'll link her art for the fic once it's up <3\. sofie you are lovely. here's my love letter to Copenhagen, one of the most wonderful places I've ever lived. the café and vintage store are based off of the ones in studiestraede!

Copenhagen is a mosaic of pastel buildings, narrow streets, and sidewalks masquerading as bike-paths. Outside of one grey-green cafe is a chalkboard that reads “Take This As A Sign” in neat script. 

 _A sign of what?_ Victor thinks, perched on a plush leather couch tucked into a corner next to the window. The sign stares back at him through the glass.  This couch is a bit chillier than the ones by the fire, but it has a better view of the street. It also means that Yuuri’s more likely to fit himself into the space at Victor’s side than to sit across the table; body heat is much preferable to a fire. 

This is only the second and a half winter that Victor hasn’t muddled through in a haze of flights and competition prep. The first was while his ankle was healing after a failed quad flip (he’d gotten it the next season). The second was spent in Japan, and then Barcelona, and then Russia—where it had become a half rather than a whole winter off. 

This one is different. This time there’s no competition waiting at winter’s end. 

“I got you a latte and a rye bread sandwich with goat cheese,” Yuuri says, sliding both onto the small table in front of them. “I’ll be right back with mine.” 

Victor opens his mouth to protest, to offer to get this one instead, but Yuuri gives him a Look before slipping back into the crowd and then up the short flight of steps to the granite bar at the center of the cafe. 

Yuuri arrives with his own plate and steaming cup of tea, and folds himself onto the couch beside Victor.  He starts a sly running commentary about the people passing by while they finish their late lunch and Victor chimes in every so often to add to the story. 

Once they’ve finished, Yuuri turns towards him with a smile, eyes soft and warm. “Where do you want to go?”

“What,” Victor says. He’s (understandably) distracted. 

“Do you have something you really want to see?” 

“No.” A pause. “Why? Do you?” 

Yuuri shrugs, lacing his fingers through Victor’s and giving them a gentle squeeze. “Not really?” 

Victor thinks about the endless years where the year wasn’t measured in months but by time between and during competitions. He thinks of the endless series of hotel rooms with their muted designs, afterthought art, false balconies, and disposable amenities.

“Not really,” he says.

 _Not if I’m with you_ , he thinks. 

Yuuri smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners—as though Victor has said it out loud anyway.

“We can just…I don’t know, take our time,” Yuuri says, “explore a little.”

///

There’s a small vintage store down the street, and Victor’s surprised when Yuuri tugs on his hand to say _this way_ and leads him through the doors. The linoleum beneath their soles is scuffed but clean, bearing the countless sets of feet that have shuffled between the clothing racks. 

Yuuri sifts through the options in front of him with a look that’s far more thoughtful than a polyester paisley jumpsuit deserves. And then to Victor’s surprise, Yuuri tugs it off the rack and lobs it into Victor’s arms. Victor takes a moment to admire the unfailing accuracy of Yuuri’s aim before realizing that he’s holding a _polyester paisley jumpsuit._

“I thought you loved me,” Victor whines, holding out the jumpsuit like it’s contagious. He’s playing it up a bit, because he still gets an electric thrill every time Yuuri tells him he loves him.

(But also it really might be contagious; at least with Armani you _know_ you’re not getting a jacket with a common cold as your gift with purchase.) 

“I do love you,” Yuuri says, matter of fact. He doesn’t look up from the clothing rack. 

“ _Yuuri,_ ” Victor says, shaking the offending garment at the side of Yuuri’s face. 

“If you’re asking me to read a designer’s mind from over thirty years ago, I’m sorry to tell you that even the strength of your belief in me has its limits,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t meet Victor’s eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirks up as he thumbs past a hot pink faux leather jacket. He pauses, plucks it from the rack,  and then throws that one into Victor’s arms as well. 

“What did I do to deserve this?” 

And because Victor evidently married a sadist, Yuuri simply leans over and drops a kiss on Victor’s cheek. “You look good in pink.” 

Victor wants to argue with that, but then Yuuri would win the even longer standing definitely-just-a-joke argument about Victor’s convertible. So he keeps his mouth shut (“For once,” says an imaginary—yet incredibly lifelike—Yakov) and trails after Yuuri to the next rack. 

Once there, Yuuri saddles him with: one (1) turquoise shirt so sparkly it might as well be a figure skating costume, one (1) jacket that someone must have made out of a set of cheap costume party feather boas, one (1) pair of gold lame trousers, two (2) sets of overalls that are more embroidered patches than denim, and two (2) matching pairs of leather cow print assless chaps. 

(Victor is still stuck on the last one. Did someone—other than Chris—feel the need to own two pairs of leather cow print assless chaps? Did they unburden themselves all at once, or was it a slow, steady denial of their cow-print-leather-assless-chaps habit? Did they hope that both pairs would find a future home together, or did they know that orphaning them meant they would inevitably be separated from their cow print leather assless chaps kin? And how many times is Victor going to have to think the phrase “cow print leather assless chaps” before he’ll be free of this purgatory?)

“Yuuri,” Victor starts. He’s going for diplomatic; considering all of the crimes against fashion that his husband is committing right before his very eyes, it’s going to be difficult. “What are we doing here?” 

“Well,” Yuuri says, glancing at Victor from underneath his eyelashes. And he’s absolutely doing that on purpose because Victor has more than once waxed rhapsodic over that exact look. He’s uploaded at least three videos of _That Look_ to Instagram. 

“ _Yuu_ ri,” Victor says. 

“I know how much you like shopping,” Yuuri says, sidling closer, his face tilted up and tempting Victor to steal a kiss from the plush pink swell of his mouth. Victor is weak and utterly powerless to resist. While Victor’s occupied by the little cartoon birds fluttering around his head, Yuuri foists a leopard print button up shirt into his arms. Victor’s pretty that’s going to end up in Yurio’s closet once they leave Denmark. 

“I didn’t think you’d resort to these sorts of tactics,” Victor lies. He’s not only come to expect these tactics, but to anticipate them; he lives for the moments when Yuuri will dare him to steal a kiss knowing that Victor is powerless to deny either of them. 

Yuuri looks at him from under a raised eyebrow and moves towards the next rack. He doesn’t linger there long.  Victor’s question—neatly sidestepped instead of answered—still hangs in the air between them like the mist that threads between the roofs of Copenhagen’s close knit buildings like a cloak.

Because Yuuri is endlessly cruel, he doesn’t even let Victor share a dressing room with him. Victor ends up abandoned to the embrace of cold imitation wood instead of Yuuri’s arms. There’s a small gap between the floor and the walls of the dressing room where Victor can see the line of Yuuri’s ankle where his calf meets his foot, the curve of his instep where it rises off the floor. 

Victor is suffering. He wonders if this is how Yuuri usually feels when they go shopping. 

 _Maybe it’ll get better once we try them on_ , Victor thinks, one part foolishly optimistic, five parts desperately distracted. 

It does not get better. Yuuri can pull off anything, but cow print assless leather chaps is an insult to the glory that is Yuuri’s ass. Which is just an insult to humanity at large, if Victor has anything to say about it. 

“What do you think?”  Yuuri asks, biting his lip and doing a little shimmy. He’s wearing a terrible and undeserving turquoise top that Victor wants to burn off of Yuuri’s body. 

“Absolutely not.” 

(They’re buying the gold lamé pants though. Victor’s sure they’ll see a lot of use—he’ll make sure of it.) 

They leave the store with a small bundle dangling from Victor’s left hand, his right laced with Yuuri’s own. 

“I thought you were the one who hated shopping,” Victor says, pouting a little. Sometimes if he purses his lips just right Yuuri will try to kiss his pout away. Victor wishes that Yuuri would kiss his pouts away all the time, but he lives in hope that if he keeps trying he’ll improve his odds. 

Yuuri swings their linked hands a little as they walk out of the store and back into the narrow street. 

“Oh, well. Phichit and I used to do this all the time in Detroit.” 

“You’d voluntarily go shopping with _Phichit_ but not me?” 

“He doesn’t treat shopping like he’s going for another Olympic gold.” 

“Then he’s clearly doing it wrong.” 

“ _Victor_ ,” Yuuri says. “It was a different kind of competition. Like who could find the worst clothes. That sort of thing. Though sometimes we found ones we actually wanted.” 

Victor taps a finger to his lips and squeezes his other hand where it’s laced with Yuuri’s. “Oh well. I guess that makes sense.” 

“Really?”

“Well, it sort of explains your taste in ties.”

///

After Yuuri reminds Victor just how _useful_ that tie has been—albeit not for its intended purpose—that he drags Victor over to a stand of city bikes and starts tapping on the screen nestled in between a bike’s handlebars. Within a few minutes, Yuuri’s freed two bikes from the rack and they’re cycling through the narrow bike lanes that shadow nearly all of Copenhagen’s sidewalks.  

Yuuri doesn’t tell him where they’re going as they merge onto a broad boulevard, but once Victor sees a broad expanse of brightly colored lights and the rise of a sea-green metal tower capped with a crown, he has a feeling he knows their destination. He’s also grateful that he borrows Mari’s bike every time they visit Hasetsu and for the unbeatable view of how the muscles in Yuuri’s thighs flex and relax as he propels himself forward. 

They leave their city bikes at a station a few hundred meters away from the entrance to Tivoli Gardens. The deep tan building reminds Victor of the hollowed out remains of a fortress. Yuuri insists on paying even though—as Victor reminds him every chance he gets—they share a bank account. 

Yuuri drags him past the great open air gardens still covered in a light dusting of snow; past the frozen lake with lonely, overturned paddle boats dotting the shores; past the twisting red steel of a roller coaster, tracks temporarily abandoned to the icy tendrils that snake up and down the metal. When they arrive, Yuuri tugs him inside and leads him over to two jewel encrusted bumper cars shaped like rabbits. Victor’s reminded of the souvenirs that Yuuri would pick out for his family when they had a free day to wander the open air markets in St. Petersburg. 

(They have nothing but free days now.) 

“Why can’t we share a car?” Victor eyes the small space inside of the bumper car carriage. It can definitely fit two adult men—provided they don’t mind being in close quarters. And Victor doesn’t mind at all. In fact, it’s his preferred arrangement. 

Yuuri slides into his own car, and grins. “Only if you catch me first,” he says, before taking off while Victor gathers whatever wits he has left; Yuuri’s taken most of them with him. 

He jumps in his car and speeds after Yuuri, winding his way through children and their parents, sullen teenagers pretending to enjoy the ride “ironically,” and lovers on dates of their own. He can’t seem to find Yuuri, though. It shouldn’t be that hard; it’s not particularly crowded and Victor firmly believes that he could pick Yuuri out of a thousand person line up while blindfolded. Then something crashes into him from behind and when he glances over his shoulder, a smile blooms on his face. Yuuri—teeth biting into his bottom lip to hold back his laughter—has found him first. 

They leave the bumper cars in a blur of light and color, making their way to a stand that sells funnel cakes. Victor doesn’t think that deep fried dough covered in powdered sugar can technically be classified as a cake; but the sugar melts on his tongue when Yuuri feeds him a piece and he finds that his complaints melt away, too.  He has no idea what Yuuri has planned next. He’s always liked surprises. 

Yuuri’s eyes light up when he notices the Ferris wheel farther into the park. He leads Victor over and they wait in line for their turn. Victor moulds himself to Yuuri’s back, hands clasped around Yuuri’s own where they’re buried in the pockets of Yuuri’s coat.  Both of them pretend that they forgot their gloves—even when their hands bump into the lump of fabric balled at the bottom of Yuuri’s left coat pocket. 

“Vitya, I’m cold,” Yuuri says, shivering unconvincingly in Victor’s arms. Before Yuuri even came to Russia—on the plane back from Barcelona, in fact—Victor spent hours of time switching between tabs looking for the warmest coat he could find. He bought one in dark blue. Copenhagen in February is nowhere near as cold as the depths of Russia’s winter, and Yuuri’s wearing the dark blue coat, but Victor holds him tighter anyways. The line inches forward and they shuffle to keep up as best they can without allowing any extra space to worm its way between them. 

Even once they’re on the ride, they merely huddle closer as the carriage ascends; Yuuri’s head tucked under Victor’s chin, Victor’s face buried in Yuuri’s tragic synthetic wool beanie. It’s almost fully dark now, and despite the slight chill the open sides of the basket make it feel as though, for a moment, they’re floating somewhere entirely their own. 

Yuuri looks up at him with wide, dark eyes. 

“Darling?”

“Did you have a nice day?” Yuuri asks, untangling one of his arms to reach up and cup the side of Victor’s face. 

Victor never said anything about his fears, about the paralyzing sea of uncertainty and idleness he’s always felt waiting on the other side of the ice. 

(Of course, he has Yuuri now, but it would be unfair to expect one person to fix everything.)

“Today was better than anything I could have planned,” Victor says. And as he leans down to brush a soft kiss over Yuuri’s lips, he knows that whatever comes next, they’ll figure it out together.

 


End file.
